


yet we carry on like a storm

by Riseupwithfists



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:38:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riseupwithfists/pseuds/Riseupwithfists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is for sallyjesserofl, for being endlessly of quality. Ugh I owed you this ages ago forgive me. Takes place between the Great Sloppening of 2x03 and the Great Eloping of 2x07. Title from the song "Beneath Your Tree", by The Bowerbirds.</p>
    </blockquote>





	yet we carry on like a storm

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for sallyjesserofl, for being endlessly of quality. Ugh I owed you this ages ago forgive me. Takes place between the Great Sloppening of 2x03 and the Great Eloping of 2x07. Title from the song "Beneath Your Tree", by The Bowerbirds.

From time to time during her shifts, Sybil will pause in a corridor or just outside a doorway, arms laden with clean bandages or dirty linens, and become temporarily stricken with a guilt she doesn't wish to name. She knows what it whispers to her – that it's shameful for her to enjoy being busy and productive, to enjoy having a purpose, not when men are coming back here shredded to bits. As it is, the friction between her duties and the rituals of her old life that her parents insist on her adhering to tears at her. As much as her mother glows at the sight of her in her uniform and as much as her father tolerates it, neither of them see this as a viable future for Sybil. But how on earth can she sit with her sisters – dressed in fancy things, surrounded by fancy things – stifled like dolls in a display? It all presses down upon her, fierce as a gargoyle perched upon her shoulders, and while most of the time she can live with it, 'most of the time' is not 'always'.

The day that they lose an officer at Downton – a corporal suffers a heart attack and slips under before Major Clarkson can stabilize him – Sybil is hit by that guilt again, nearly paralyzing in its strength. She wills herself to swallow her rising panic, but her hands fumble with the bedding as they wheel the corporal away, as she helps to erase any sign of him ever living and breathing among the other men. “You can take your break early, Nurse Crawley,” Sergeant Barrow tells her quietly as he passes, “if you need a bit of air,” and she's so relieved that she's gone before she remembers to thank him.

She hadn't even cared for Corporal Snyder. Too cruel in his humor, too quick to take the unkind path in conversation. Once or twice he'd gotten a bit grabby with her. Sybil hadn't said a word to anyone, though Sergeant Barrow had seen the second attempt, and he had been near at hand from then on whenever she checked on the corporal (Canny Sergeant Barrow; perhaps he does have a heart after all). She has no rational reason to let this affect her so, but nevertheless there's a clenched, angry feeling within her chest, and she flees the house as gracefully as she is able.

She's at the garage before she can fully register where her feet are taking her, but she isn't surprised to find herself there. Even if Branson weren't present, being able to hide herself here would be solace enough. He's here now, though, looking up at her from his book, and the fact of him is at once a great solace and a greater distraction.

Greetings between them are the hardest part these days. “Nurse Crawley” is safe enough, though temporary; “Milady” can be turned remorseful or icicle-sharp on Branson's tongue depending on where and how he says it. She says his Christian name out loud to herself when she is sure to be alone; every time it seems like some strange intrusion. This time, he starts to say something but stops himself, swiftly looking her over and sensing her distress.

“I just,” she murmurs fitfully when he jumps up, “I just-” and she's waterlogged, filled to the tipping point with shock and the added shame of the shock turning her emotional. In answer, there's a soft, guiding hand on Sybil's elbow (and what vindication he would feel if he were to know how his touch felt like a brand upon her skin, even through her sleeve!) to help her onto the stool that he's pulled over, as if she's the patient for once. Branson, to his credit, doesn't tut over her or ask if she wishes to talk about it. He steps away and leans against the motor, looking slightly down, waiting. Sybil stares first down at the stone and then across at her rippled and disproportionate reflection in the automobile's shell. It seems an appropriate mirror, as her brain feels as if it's trying to shatter right out of her head. When words do come, they leave her lips in a torrent: “I thought I'd grown used to this, I thought I had but it was trying to trap a cloud, the life just left him and I felt so impotent, so useless-” And here she is, breaking down as if she hadn't been trained for this, as if she hadn't stood by deaths far messier, as if she hadn't found Lieutenant Courtenay suspended in his bloody bedding like an Ophelia (and the loss of him, above all others, still stings the most).

Branson seems struck dumb ( _for once in his life_ , Sybil thinks). He stands back silently, letting her breathe for a minute, before speaking. “You're not useless. I believe that your current position is a waste of your talent, and I'll stand by that. But as long as you strive to be useful, you are.”

Sybil should take this as an encouragement and a compliment. Instead, she says, “You were still wrong to belittle my work.” And here they are again, even now, picking at old wounds.

Except instead of flaring into defense or indignation, Branson merely nods. “I was.” When Sybil, quite taken aback, can't figure out how to respond he continues, “I apologize. I know how important your work is to you. Even though I believe you deserve better, I said it to hurt you and that was wrong of me.”

“Thank you,” Sybil answers. It's so uncharacteristic of him to apologize, and when she tells him so, he answers with a rueful smile and a change of subject.

“Did I ever tell you what happened the night I served at dinner?”

“Never.” She would have remembered if he had already told her. Each word that leaves his mouth is a dart that inevitably sinks into her, right on target, whether she likes it or not. She was secretly relieved it hadn't happened again. It seemed wrong, like some sort of cruel joke. He'd burned into her line of sight that evening, partly due to their prior argument, partly because her gut was screaming _he doesn't belong here, not here_.

Does he suffer from the same malady, where looking directly upon her makes his head feel as if it's caught fire?

Branson gives her his half-smile again. “You're going to laugh.”

“I won't,” Sybil promises him, eager to hear. “Not if you don't wish me to, at least.”

“Well,” he says, “that is at least some comfort,” and so he tells her.

Sybil lets her eyes close and she lets his voice take over, once again hitting true. The sound of him would be calming save for the story he's telling. She had known of his anger at the general's visit, but she had no idea how much matters had grown out of hand, how close to calamity Branson had come. She had promised not to laugh, but eventually she must interrupt. “Slop,” she cries, “truly?” Branson's mouth gets thin in response and she regrets her outburst, at making him take offense, but she mouths “slop?” again, and then they're both laughing because the story is absurd, the entire situation is absurd, and it's so terrible that they have to laugh.

"If I say that it seemed like a dignified enough idea at the time, would you believe me?"

"I would!" Sybil exclaims, still feeling giggly. “I'm distressed, I really am,” she adds once she has calmed enough to speak in complete sentences. “I mean it, Tom, if anything had happened to you I would have felt wholly responsible.”

Branson crosses his arms. “It wasn't to impress you, believe me.”

“But I hurt you. And it added enough fuel to the fire to make you want to do something drastic.” _To make you willing to languish in an English prison. To take yourself away from me._

“That I can't deny,” he says, then, “You called me Tom. Just now.”

“I did, I did,” she says, and she is lightheaded, liable to begin laughing again. “I didn't even realize. I understand if you feel offended-”

“No.” Sybil half-expects him to break into a cocksure speech about the politics of title and the equality of true names between the sexes, but instead Branson's looking at her almost shyly, jamming his hands into his pockets and shaking his head. “My name on your lips is far from an offense.”

Sybil wants to ask him if he'd do it again, if he won't be able to rest until he's sufficiently martyred himself for his cause. And it's terrible on multiple fronts to ask him to stay here on her behalf, a choice steeped in privilege and cowardice, but to know how close he came from losing him tears at her. They can't do this forever. “I don't wish you to ever compromise your beliefs on my account,” she says instead. Good God, but he already is, he already is, just living and working here must be a compromise that she cannot even fathom. “I wish I had your courage.”

“Some would say I'm merely a foolhardy hothead.”

“You are a foolhardy hothead,” she points out. “Be that as it may, you're not without courage.”

“I certainly hope so, Nurse Crawley.” He says it with such warmth that it might as well be her own name.

It would be far too simple to continue to sit here - she can practically see Mary happening upon them again and giving her another scolding - but Sybil knows she is needed: first to tend to the men, then to tend to her family. “I quite feel as if I can take on the world again now.” She rises, brushing down her apron, smoothing down her cap. "Thank you. You don't know how much it means to me."

Branson walks with her to the mouth of the garage. "You don't know how much it means to me that you'd come here when you needed comfort. You take care."

"And you as well," Sybil replies. She hesitates, almost thinking better of herself, then takes his hand. It's different from the moment they had years ago (it might as well be centuries, seeing all that has happened since), How warm his hand is in hers, how unexpected of a comfort it is. Sybil is struck with an unbidden image of those hands of his at her shoulders, at her waist, and she has to step back, letting go, in order for her head to clear.

_Don't leave without me_ , she screams in her head until it's a wonder he can't hear it. _Please, please, just a while longer_. She already knows how the night will see her dreamless, twisting on her pillow in search of a hazy relief. She'll recall the nearness of his body to her own until it torments her. She'll recall the look of him right before she leaves him now, burrowing inside her like a hook, a burr.

Sybil turns and heads back toward the house with her heart leading her pace, with every beat telling her _you must become braver, you must._


End file.
